


The At the Zoo Affair

by akane42me



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:07:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/pseuds/akane42me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all happening at the zoo!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The At the Zoo Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Written for MUNCLE's Down the Chimney 8 story exchange.

****  
  
The At the Zoo Affair   
  


  
  
_Someone told me_  
It’s all happening at the zoo  
I do believe it  
I do believe it’s true.  
\- Paul Simon  


  
**New York City – 1967**

The girls from Translating three tables over were casting looks his way. And giggling. He smiled at them. They turned away, giggling again. Illya strolled past them to join Napoleon. He set his coffee and newspaper on the table, sat, and began to read. 

“Stop ogling, Napoleon.”

“They’re ogling  _me_.” Napoleon grinned. “Don’t be jealous. It’s unbecoming.”

“Who, me, jealous? I hardly think so. They’re not ogling you, they’re talking about you. Something about taking a Watusi refresher course.” Illya kept his eyes fastened to the morning headlines and stirred his coffee.

Napoleon’s grin turned sour. After a moment Illya glanced up, his attention ostensibly remaining half devoted to his paper. 

“What?” Illya asked. 

Napoleon watched his friend’s face. Another giggle from the girls from Translating. And there it was: a hint of a twitch at the corner of Illya’s mouth. 

“Not you, too,” Napoleon said, stealing a fast look at the girls, this time with something less than delight. He turned back to Illya. “Benedict Arnold.”

Illya broke into a mischievous grin. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.” 

Napoleon frowned. 

“You’re not upset, are you?”

“Of course not,” Napoleon said, a little too firmly.

“Embarrassed?”

“That’s beneath you.” Napoleon pushed his plate aside. “I’m looking forward to seeing Baby again. And by the way, I wasn’t  _speaking_ Watusi.” He grimaced. “I was dancing. The Watusi - it’s the latest thing.” Illya didn’t look surprised in the least. “You already knew,” Napoleon said. 

Illya nodded toward the girls from Translating. “Marsha Woodhugh and Girl - Rebecca, I should say - told Mr. Waverly. Heather overheard it. She told Mandy. The rest is history.” Illya shook his head. “Dancing with a gorilla, Napoleon? I can see why you didn’t include it in your field report.” 

Napoleon gritted his teeth. “I was trying to show Girl I wasn’t a bad guy. I had no control over Baby getting in on the act.” He sat, silent. It was humiliating to recall the scene. “It was two months ago. You’d think it’d die a quiet death by now.” 

“But with Baby coming to town, you’re the easiest target for office humor. You’re king of the hill, Napoleon.”

Napoleon sighed in resignation.

“Don’t look so glum. Let’s change the subject,” Illya said. “Somehow, I think you would like that. What have you heard from the zoo? Are they ready for Baby?” 

Two days ago, Baby the Gorilla had arrived in New York, a gift from President Khufu to the Central Park Zoo. Today, President Khufu would officially present Baby to the city.

“The orangutans were moved last week so Baby could be placed next to the other gorillas. The Monkey House is closed until the ceremony is over. Then they’ll throw the doors open and introduce Baby,” said Napoleon. 

“I imagine Baby will be thrilled to see you again.”

Napoleon forced a smile. “You want to know the truth? I’ll be glad when this whole Khufu and Baby thing is over, so we can get back to something more pleasant, like getting shot at.”

* * * *  
Mr. Waverly hung up the phone and turned back to Napoleon and Illya, where they were seated at the round conference table. “Central Park Zoo is ready for President Khufu.” He frowned. “But I’m afraid we have a problem.” 

“Don’t tell me. Major Blackburn is too hung over to present Baby. I don’t know why Khufu insisted that Blackburn accompany Baby to New York,” said Napoleon. “He was advised of Blackburn’s -” Napoleon tipped back an invisible flask.

“No, Mr. Solo. President Khufu provided a generous stipend for Blackburn to oversee Baby’s installation, and for several weeks beyond, so he has ample incentive to do the job well. The problem is the safety of President Khufu.” 

Khufu was at the United Nations, heading a conference on the volatile geopolitical climate in Africa. 

Waverly said, “Intelligence has intercepted a transmission containing Khufu’s name. The signal was weak, but what they managed to work out is more than enough to bring UNCLE into the picture.” Waverly paused, weighing the situation. “The message contained the words ‘Khufu’, ‘Gorilla’, ‘Zoo’, and ‘Thrush’.” 

He pulled his pipe from his pocket and fidgeted with it, then tossed it on the table, betraying his normally unflappable countenance. “Confound it, several dignitaries from the conference are attending the ceremony, to see Baby presented to the zoo and hear Khufu’s speech. Mayor Lindsay and the City Council will be there.”

“And spectators, and musicians,” said Illya. 

Napoleon said, “We should have the ceremony cancelled.” 

Waverly shook his head. “President Khufu refuses to be cowed by threats. He intends to give his speech as planned. Mayor Lindsay is keeping it quiet, but he is ordering additional security measures.” 

“I suppose Thrush wants to get rid of Khufu so they can weasel their way into the new government,” said Illya. “But something seems off. It’s out of character for Thrush to orchestrate a coup in such a blatant manner, during a public ceremony at Central Park Zoo, of all places. Why don’t they just kill Khufu in his own country? They could easily blow him up in his car, or arrange a poisoning, or -” He stopped, seeing Waverly’s eyebrows rise. 

Napoleon coughed and asked mildly, “Whose side are you on, Illya?”

“I was merely trying to point out the – you’re being facetious again, aren’t you?” 

Napoleon grinned at his partner. Waverly stood. “The two of you are to go to Central Park immediately. The ceremony is in four hours. That should be sufficient time for you to come up with a strategy, in case Thrush intends to harm Khufu.” 

Napoleon said, “You know, I’ve always meant to visit the Central Park Zoo. But I never got around to it.”

“Today is not the day for sight-seeing, Mr. Solo,” said Waverly, drily. “Make sure nothing happens to President Khufu.”

As the door to Waverly’s office swished closed behind them, Illya poked Napoleon on the arm. “Maybe you can get Baby to help us protect Khufu. You do have a way with gorillas.”

* * * *   
Solar lit a cigarette and lay back on the couch. She pulled hard on the cigarette, watching the tip grow red, and then inhaled the smoke deep into her lungs. She hated herself for smoking; she knew it was the worst thing she could do for her music, ruining her lung capacity. But it calmed her. And right now, she needed calming, because her very fingertips were sweating, if that was possible. Her performance must be perfect, so no curious eyes would be compelled, as they always were, to seek the musician playing the wrong note at the wrong time. She had to blend in until it was time for the world to see what one flute player could accomplish. Well, one flute player and a troupe of mimes and a couple of trash collectors. She checked her watch. Time for a final run-through, and then she would have to leave for the zoo. Dropping the cigarette into an empty Tab can reserved for that purpose, she sighed out a final puff of smoke. The cigarette hissed inside the can. Disgusting.

She stood and arched her back, stretching. It was a difficult piece of music. She fluttered her fingers and rolled her neck to loosen the tension there. Do. Not. Tense. Up. She went to the folding chair reserved for practice, sat down, and pushed the music stand out of the way. Warm up first, with scales. 

“Why,” she groaned, “did they have to pick a piece in D flat major? I hate this.” Five flats. She drew a long breath and proceeded. D flat, E flat, F, G flat, A flat, B flat, C, and finally, the high D flat. Repeat. And again. She pulled the music stand toward her and scanned the sheet music. Actually, this jazz piece was pretty cool. She checked the time. She had to have time to work on her trill fingering, too.

The timing after the performance was critical. Stop thinking about it, she ordered herself. Focus on the music. She glanced at the two cases on the floor beneath the coffee table. The first, her flute case, was open, revealing the protective blue plush interior. The second, larger case was closed. For now. She thought of the two men who’d visited her a month ago. For all their earnest words and dedication to the cause, what she remembered most was the scheming pleasure in their eyes as they plotted the chaos. 

* * * *  
Napoleon set up the command post at the Monkey House. Everything was in order. The sun was shining and a pleasant breeze rustled through the trees. The Monday crowds were thin, which played in UNCLE’s favor. Behind him, the shiny red ribbon barring the walkway to the Monkey House fluttered gaily. In less than an hour, Khufu would speak. 

No trouble had been reported from the many eyes in place around the ceremony grounds. The rows of chairs set up for spectators were gradually filling up. The first three rows were roped off for the dignitaries, but behind them, three plump white-haired grandmotherly women had blocked off ten chairs with their purses and sweaters, and were stoutly turning away hopefuls who’d spotted the open seats. Napoleon smiled. Some things never changed. A group of mimes, a dozen or so, who’d been performing at the Sea Lion Pool, had joined the festivities, entertaining the waiting audience.

It was the notebook that drew Napoleon’s attention to the fellow. He was young, mid-twenties, short, dressed in black. He’d come up the front side of the Arsenal, turned the corner, and passed Napoleon and the Monkey House. He continued walking along the Arsenal’s north side, where the crew was finishing the setup for the ceremony. The man paused along the way, studying the building and the crew, then meandered a short distance more. The odd thing was, each time he stopped, he fished a pocket-sized notebook from his coat, scribbled in it, put it back in his pocket, and continued his stroll. Napoleon took out his communicator. 

“Illya, where are you?”

“At the zoo entrance.” 

“Come toward me, on your side of the Arsenal. A guy just walked past me, taking notes, like he’s on surveillance duty, but he’s not with Security.” 

“What does he look like?” 

“Short. Black jacket, black pants, black hair. Funny haircut, looks like a hamster. He’s stopping. See him? He’s pulling out a little notebook.” 

“I see him. More of a vole, I’d say. Hamsters are brown and white.”

“They come in black. I had a black hamster when I was a kid.”

“You had a – he’s on the move. What do you want me to do with him?”

“Just check him out. He’s probably a reporter. But if he bolts, call me.”

“If he bolts, I’ll be too busy running after him to call you.” 

Illya pocketed his communicator. Keeping to the opposite side of the walkway, he drew nearer to the man, who, if he truly was a Thrush spy, was not a good one, for he made no secret of his activities. He sat on a park bench on the grass across from the Arsenal and had the notebook out again, watching as the musicians for the ceremony filed in and prepared for rehearsal. He wrote something down. Nearby, someone was hammering something into place on the speaker’s podium. He tapped his foot along with the noise and made another entry in his little book. As the musician’s first tentative notes floated in the air, Illya crossed over to the man and sat next to him.

“Nice day,” he said to the little man, who turned to Illya and smiled. “I’m sorry to intrude, but, may I ask you what you’re doing?” Illya showed the man his UNCLE Identification card. The time for the ceremony was drawing near, precluding any attempt at subtlety. 

The man bent in close, and peered at the card. “U, N, C, L, E,” he spelled, and for no reason, giggled. Illya caught a whiff of something exotic, sweetly woodsy. Marijuana. The guy was a tea head. 

A flutter of movement among the musicians caught Illya’s eye. A tall, willowy young woman with long, straight brown hair arrived, late, and was picking her way through the assemblage, taking care not to bump the cases she carried against the players or the stands. She took a seat in the back row of flute players and put the cases down. She opened the first case, removing and assembling a silver flute. From the second case she extracted two sets of sheet music and placed them just so on her music stand. The other players chatted and bumped chairs and stands, enjoying the casual moments before their work began. In their midst, the late-comer was an island of calm. 

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” said the little man. “Look how she moves - graceful, like an antelope. And her hair flowing, like brown prairie grass in autumn. Time hurries on. And the leaves that are green turn to brown.” 

Illya turned to the man with an appraising eye. “That’s quite poetic.” 

The man giggled. “I  _am_  poetic.” He started humming, and then sang softly, “Time hurries on, and the leaves that are green turn to brown.” He smiled. “I can sing a little, too.” 

Recognition dawned. “You’re Paul Simon, aren’t you? “ Paul Simon nodded, and offered Illya a hand.

Illya called Napoleon. “The ham – the man is not a threat.” The hamster was stoned. 

“Okay, that’s one less person to watch. Illya, Khufu’s limo just pulled up. Stick close to the stage. I’ll be covering the Monkey House.”

“Affirmative.”

Paul Simon asked, “Are you here to guard the guy from Africa?”

“Not personally. There are a lot of people already doing that. But my partner and I are charged with high-level assistance. I’m particularly on the lookout for certain birds of prey. ”

“Observation. That’s what I do, too. I come here a lot. I think the animals really like seeing me, too,” Paul Simon said. “Observe.” He pointed at two trash collectors in grey jumpsuits, who heaved at a collection bin, wheeling it down the walkway behind the stage. “Watch out for the pigeons. Pigeons plot in secrecy.” He giggled again and closed his eyes. “Oh, that’s good.”

The members of the City Council filed into the second and third reserved rows. Dignitaries wearing colorful African garb appeared and took up the front row. Khufu followed them, and the audience applauded as he mounted the steps to the stage. Mayor Lindsay, waiting on the stage, shook Khufu’s hand, and the two men turned together to face the audience. The Mayor welcomed the people to the ceremony. Everyone rose as the musicians played ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ and the anthem of Khufu’s new nation. The people applauded again. Next, the musicians launched into an airy, modern tune written for the occasion. 

“Observe,” Paul Simon said again, pointing. On the sidelines, the mimes bent and twisted with grace, arms stretched to the sky, like branches of trees. “Zebras are reactionaries,” Paul Simon said, and giggled again. 

The giggling was getting a bit irritating, Illya thought. He watched the mimes perform. In their striped T-shirts, they did resemble zebras. “Your imagery is quite inventive.” 

Simon smiled, and made an ‘OK’ with his thumb and finger. He raised it to his lips and sucked at an invisible joint. 

“Ah.” Not only inventive, but hallucinogenic. “Out of curiosity, do you do this very often?”

“Frequently. You should try it sometime,” Paul Simon suggested.

If he only knew what Thrush has put in my veins, Illya thought. “I’d better stick to legal substances.”

The musicians finished the piece. They stood, bowed, and sat. The audience applauded. The mimes mimed applause and grandly bowed to each other, and then, with entertainingly birdlike movements, spread their arms and flapped their way along the perimeter of the audience. 

Solar bowed along with the musicians, then sat and quickly disassembled her flute and put it in its case. Feeling surprisingly calm, she ran through her instructions one last time. With a minimum of movement, so as not to attract attention, she lifted the large case and placed it on her lap. She inched the lid open and slid both hands into the case. She watched the mimes dance along the rows of chairs. The audience smiled and nodded at them. Eventually, a mime was stationed at the outer edge of every second row. For maximum coverage.

Illya watched the mimes with an inexplicable sense of unease. To the uninitiated, the mimes had created an artistic symmetry in their positions. In his world, the mimes had just surrounded the audience. Alarm bells rang in his brain as he recalled Paul Simon’s words. _Pigeons plot in secrecy. Zebras are reactionaries._  He rose, scanning the surroundings for the trash collectors. 

Mayor Lindsay introduced President Khufu, who began to speak. 

Solar counted out one hundred seconds, tightening each hand’s grip inside the case. 

Illya pulled out his pen and called Security. He spoke urgently, “Be on the look-out for two trash collectors dressed in grey pushing a trash bin.” 

“Uh, sir? The park’s full of trash collectors dressed in grey pushing trash bins,” a dubious sounding voice replied.

“Check behind the stage,” Illya instructed. And get some men on the mimes. They may -” His instructions were cut short, as abruptly, from several directions, the ceremony derailed.

It began when the willowy girl in the flute section jumped on her chair, screaming at the top of her lungs. 

“Free the Gorillas! Free the Gorillas,” she shouted, and flung two white bricks skyward. The bricks sailed high, then burst into white clouds of leaflets which caught in the breeze and fluttered down upon the crowd. The girl jumped down, grabbed her flute case, and dashed toward the Monkey House.

Illya leapt from the bench and ran through the paper storm after the girl.

The mimes pulled black juggling balls from their pockets, hurled them into the audience, and made a beeline for the stage. The balls exploded when they hit the ground, and thick, grey smoke boiled out, rising to cover the crowd in a second assault. Pandemonium broke out as frightened people screamed and ran blindly, trampling the fallen as they bulldozed their way down the narrow rows of chairs. 

Illya changed course and headed for the stage, where Khufu stood at the podium, frozen. Only a few seconds had ticked by, but the first of the mimes were nearly at the stage. Security guards surged to protect Khufu, but suddenly, a small figure in black hurtled from nowhere onto the stage, screaming at the guards, his right arm held high, waving something in the air. To Illya’s utter amazement, the guards halted. Paul Simon tackled Khufu and they disappeared behind the podium. 

Illya shouted into his pen, “Napoleon! Paul Simon is the assassin! He just attacked President Khufu!”  He ran onto the stage and frantically looked around. Khufu and Paul Simon were nowhere to be seen. He called to the guards, “Search the grounds! Khufu is gone!” 

The security guards and mimes grappled each other in a tangle of bodies. Then, as abruptly as the chaos began, it ended. The mimes were subdued and hustled away. Dignitaries, musicians, and crowd had vanished in the wake of the attack. Leaflets fluttered across the grounds, rustling in the gentle breeze. 

Somewhere nearby, a car engine came to life with a deep purr. A car horn sounded, an expensive, three-note peal once, twice: Khufu’s limousine. Illya did an about face, and ran to the front of the Arsenal, where Khufu’s car was parked. 

* * * *  
From outside the Monkey House, Napoleon watched the girl running his way. He decided against heading her off, in hopes that she would lead him to her confederates. He followed her around to the back side of the building. There, a zookeeper’s entrance stood open. Inside, the girl’s voice was raised in alarm. 

“Fred! What are you doing?”

“Shut up, you stupid girl. And stop calling me Fred.”

  
“But that’s your name!”   


“No, it isn’t! Unlock the cage! Now!”

“Don’t put me in there! I suppose you’re not from the ASPCA, either, are you, you – you –”

  
A scuffling noise ensued. Napoleon pulled out his gun and edged inside. Outside Baby’s cage, a man in a grey jumpsuit pointed a gun at the girl, who was trying to get a key into the lock. Inside, Major Blackburn lay unconscious on the cage floor. Baby bent over Blackburn’s still form, petted him, then stood and roared.    


Napoleon stepped behind Fred and trained his weapon on him. “Drop it,” he said. 

Fred jumped, and pulled the girl to him. He twisted around to face Napoleon. “You drop it. You’re outnumbered!” 

“By my count, it’s one to one. You surely aren’t counting the girl.”

  
A voice behind Napoleon said, “He’s counting me. Now drop it, like Fred said.”    


“Stop calling me Fred,” said Fred, and tightened his grip on the girl.

The man behind Napoleon said, “Good thing I came to look for you. What the hell happened?”

Fred said, “The old geezer stumbled across me when I was signaling the mimes. He overheard me say the trash bin was in place for grabbing Khufu, so I whacked him over the head. Headquarters wants to know what’s going on. Where’s Khufu?” 

The second man said, “Forget headquarters. You and your hair-brained ideas. You think they’re going to promote us after this mess? Those idiot mimes screwed up! Come on, we’ve got to get out of here!” 

Fred twisted the girl’s hand. She cried out in pain as he wrenched the key from her. He got the cage open and shoved the girl into the cage. Baby roared again, and Fred aimed his gun at the distraught gorilla.

Napoleon shouted, “Baby! No! Get back!” He raised his arms and turned to the man behind him. “All right. If you want to get out of here, then go. You can lock us in there and leave. Just don’t shoot the gorilla.”

* * * *  
Illya approached the car from the rear with caution. The two passengers, one short, one tall, huddled together in the front seat and fiddled with the buttons on the dashboard. Illya groaned in exasperation and yanked the driver’s door open.

“… really like that cool African music. Someday I’d like to – Hi, Illya! Did you hear my signal?” Paul Simon proudly tapped the horn again. Beside him, President Khufu beamed.

Illya winced at the horn’s blare. “Please, don’t do that. Sir, are you all right?” he asked Khufu. 

“I am perfectly fine, Mr. Kuryakin. This young man saved my life. I pray no one died from the gas attack,” said Khufu.

“It was nothing more than smoke bombs. It was a distraction, so the mimes could get to you.” Illya turned to Paul Simon. “Are you out of your mind? You could have been shot. How did you convince the security guards to let you through?” 

Paul Simon grinned, and dug in his back pocket. “I held my wallet up, and yelled ‘Interpol!’” He shrugged sheepishly. “I saw it on TV. I shoved the President right off the back of the stage and saved him! We ran back here, and well, here we are.”

Illya closed his eyes. “The security guards would have protected the President. There was no need for your interference.” 

“But I wanted to help you,” Paul Simon insisted. “I warned you about the mimes, remember? And the trash guys, too!” 

Illya reached in and hauled Paul Simon out of the car by the collar of his coat. “You did not tell me about a kidnapping plot. You rambled on about antelopes, and zebras, and pigeons, in a pot-induced haze.”

“I thought I was being perfectly clear.”

“Well, you weren’t.”

“Well,  _I_  think I was.” 

Khufu interrupted them. “Please. Everything is fine. Please, do not argue,” he said. “Mr. Kuryakin, I really must get back to my hotel. Please, find me a driver.” He said to Paul Simon. Thank you again, my friend.”

“Any time, Mr. President.”

“Over my dead body,” muttered Illya.

* * * *  
As the limousine pulled out onto Park Avenue, Illya called Napoleon. “Khufu is safe. Are you still at the Monkey House?”

“Yes. But Blackburn is out cold, and our Thrush friends locked the flute girl and me in Baby’s cage. They’re gone.” 

“Don’t tell me Blackburn’s drunk.”

“No, I don’t think so. One of the Thrush guys knocked him out. Come and get us.” 

“How is it that you don’t have any of those extraordinary escape devices on you?”

“Twist the knife, thank you very much.”

“I’ll be right there,” Illya said, capping his pen. 

“Who’s Blackburn?” asked Paul Simon.

“Baby’s caretaker,” Illya told him.

“Who’s Thrush?”

Illya sighed. “The pigeons.” 

“Hah! I knew they were up to something,” said Paul Simon, triumphantly. 

They ran to the Monkey House. The public entrance was still locked. High-pitched monkey howls emanated from around the corner of the building, which led them to the zookeeper’s entrance. 

“It’s the orangutans, I bet. New cages,” said Paul Simon, as he pushed past Illya. 

Illya shoved Paul Simon back. “No, you don’t. You stay out here. If we don’t know where those two Thrush men are, they could still be inside.” 

Paul Simon hesitated, and then leaned against the wall. “And what if they’re out here?”

“Then they’re probably in Brooklyn by now. I’ll come and get you in a minute.” 

Interspersed with the noise from the monkeys, Illya heard flute music, and followed it to Baby’s cage. Inside the cage, Major Blackburn lay on the floor, snoring. The girl with the flute was playing a song while Napoleon moved back and forth to the music, holding hands with Baby. Illya stopped short and burst into laughter.

  
Hearing Illya, Napoleon turned to his partner. “It’s for therapeutic purposes,” he protested. “It’s helping Baby relax.”    


“At least you’re not doing the Watusi this time,” said Illya. “A slow dance is so much more dignified.”

* * * *  
Paul Simon hummed to himself in the sunshine, thinking about the day’s happenings at the zoo. He reached for his notebook and began writing. The sound of running feet made him look up. “Pigeons,” he said. He poked his head inside the zookeeper’s door. “Illya…” In a few moments, Illya appeared at the door. Paul Simon pointed and said, “The pigeons just went that-a-way.” 

Illya called Security. With luck, the two Thrushes would be in a cage of their own by the end of the day. 

* * * *  
In the cafeteria, the girls from Translating three tables over were casting looks his way. And giggling. He scowled at them. They turned away, giggling again. Napoleon strolled past them to join Illya. He set his coffee and newspaper on the table, sat, and began to read. 

“It’ll blow over in a while,” he assured Illya. 

“Based on your experience, I have no confidence that it will, any time soon. By the way, I saw the Gorilla Guerilla girl leaving Mr. Waverly’s office earlier.” 

“Her name is Solar Erickson. Her story checks out. She’s the president of the local chapter of an animal rights organization called ‘Gorilla Guerillas’. A month ago, when Khufu contacted the zoo about Baby, two men, our two Thrush flunkies, paid her a visit, and asked to join her organization’s protest over Baby being put in the zoo. They’re the ones who concocted the scheme with the smoke bombs. She agreed to it, but she knew nothing about the kidnapping attempt. According to our captured pigeons, they intended to use her to divert the blame for Khufu’s abduction to her organization.”

“So she’s been cleared of any Thrush involvement?”

Solo nodded. “And Paul Simon has been exonerated as well.” He paused. “He sorted out that Thrush plot all on his own. You know, we should recruit him. He’d make an excellent Intelligence analyst.” 

“Napoleon. That’s not funny.” 

Napoleon struggled to keep a straight face. “It’s turnabout fair play, Illya. You had your turn poking fun at me.” 

Illya sighed.

“You accused  _Paul Simon_  of attempting to assassinate President Khufu,” said Napoleon, and turned to the girls from Translating and gave them a smile. “And  _that_ , my friend, any day, trumps dancing with a gorilla. King of the hill, my friend. You’re king of the hill.” 

  
**The End**


End file.
